


And he fell

by lilyblaney



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Azkaban, Gen, I don't know how to do tags, Immortal Merlin, No pairings - Freeform, Poor Merlin, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, The Ministry (aka Fudge) sucks, also Azkaban is a terrible idea and is inhumane and this was written in mild protest, kinda mysterious but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8299898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyblaney/pseuds/lilyblaney
Summary: During the first war, Merlin made a catastrophic mistake and was thrown into Azkaban. Now, with Sirius Black’s escape, his absence is discovered. How did Merlin disappear without anyone noticing? 
Originally called “How the Ministry Discovered that Merlin had Escaped Azkaban” (yikes). 
Rewritten as of now, and I plan to expand eventually (working on it as of June, 2018). Here's a sneak peak :)
----
  Harsh, bone-rattling breaths came from a black shadow to Merlin's right, but he couldn't concentrate, couldn't find out what they were, and-and-and-
  And Arthur was in his arms. Giving up.
“I want to say...something I’ve never said to you before...”
  “A-arthur,” Merlin choked out, one hand fluttering about, trying to find some way to stop this, some way to save him. But he was losing his hold on Arthur, on reality—
“Thank you.”
  And Merlin fell into a nightmare.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy! 
> 
> And shout-out to FalconFate's story Drake and Dragon Bookshop (on FanFiction.net) which I got the inspiration for this story from.

 

The Azkaban cell Marvey and his fellow Auror, Jones, just finished examining locked shut with a deep clunk that reverberated subtly through the floor. Checking that the door was truly secured, Marvey stepped back and, taking a steadying breath, reversed the freezing charm on the prisoner locked inside.

For a moment, the prisoner was completely still, but once she realized she’d been freed, she staggered forward with reckless speed and slammed into the bars.

“Traitors!” she screeched, hands reaching through the bars, and Marvey and Jones stumbled further away, cursing. “I’ll burn you alive and rip out your insides—“

The dementor accompanying them interrupted her spiel, sweeping forward and beginning to feed on her memories. The prisoner fell back with a howl, scratching at her ears.

Marvey shivered for the umpteenth time since entering the prison. He hated this assignment. He hated the dementors, whom they were ordered to leave alone. He hated the misery and the yelling and the prisoners. He hated everything about this place.

Why did Sirius Black have to escape and force them to check the prison’s security?

“Merlin,” Jones said, throwing Marvey his signature grin, and Marvey rolled his eyes and relaxed slightly, thankful for the normality of the gesture. T.hey both began to walk down the hall. The next cell was more than twenty meters away, removed from the rest.

"On to the big one, eh?" Jones said as they approached it, regarding it curiously.

Marvey nodded nervously. This was one of the last cells they had to check, and it was also one of the most heavily fortified. Where others were given bars, this prisoner was behind a magic-enforced, transparent door that they’d had to obtain special access to learn how to open. The prisoner was all the more mysterious. Even after researching the issue for days, Marvey’d only learned that the prisoner was _very_ dangerous yet very susceptible to dementors.

Stepping closer, Marvey peered through the door. The other side of the door held a faint glow, but it shone too weakly to allow Marvey to see very far into the cell.

"Let's get this over with," Marvey muttered before knocking and tapping the door systematically as he’d been told to while saying a series of numbers and letters. This was supposedly the key to opening the door. Thankfully, Marvey remembered everything, and the door whirred under his touch and unlocked moments later. After casting the _immobulus_ charm, he opened the door, and they both entered, a dementor quickly following.

The prisoner lay in the far, left corner of the square room, facing away. Marvey wasn't sure if this made him more or less uneasy.

Jones appeared to be indifferent, humming tunelessly as he thoroughly examined the walls, floor, ceiling, door, and sparsely-spread objects of the room, muttering spells irregularly along the way. Marvey continued to closely watch the dark wizard.

He was starting to let his mind wander, debating internally what Prisoner 373 must have done to get placed in the most secure cell in the entire prison, when he realized that the dementor had left the room without feeding.

Marvey frowned. The dementors never ignored a prisoner. They were always hungry for more.

He hoped the prisoner wasn’t dead. They had already found one corpse. This cell didn't smell like the other hand, though, so maybe he was in luck…

He carefully took a step closer to the prisoner and squinted at the still form.

"You alright there, Marvey?" Jones asked, still absorbed in his work.

"Yeah, yeah," Marvey answered absentmindedly, "It's just that… The dementor left, and…"

Something wasn’t right about the way the prisoner was positioned.

Jones paused. "Peter?"

Marvey beckoned Jones over. “Look. It—he looks…unnatural.”

Jones glanced at the prisoner briefly but went back to his work. “He looks a bit out of it if that's what you mean. But he's with _dementors_ all day long. 'Course he's a little…you know." He motioned toward his head vaguely with his left hand.

"No, that’s—that can’t be it," Marvey said.

Jones sighed and took the few steps to where his partner was. He peered at the prisoner only a moment before he frowned and stepped forward. “His body’s twisted wrong,” he muttered, lighting his wand with a silent _lumos_.

“That’s what I mean,” Marvey said, lowering his voice to meet Jones’s mutter. “Something’s very wrong here.”

Jones took one last step towards the still figure and reached out slowly.

His wand pushed against it. Both Aurors froze as the prisoner shifted.

“I thought you cast the _immobulus_ charm,” Jones whispered, eyes wide.

“I did,” Marvey whispered back.

They flipped the body onto its back carefully, which it did lollingly. Both stared for a good minute.

“We need to take this to Scrimgeour,” Jones said in a strangled voice.

The door slammed shut behind them as they ran from the room.

\----

“I don’t believe it!”

The Minister of Magic—with his typical green bowler and suit—stood near the cell entrance to Prisoner 373—also known as Emrys to a select few. The Minister tried to cover it up by blustering, but with the way he twisted the bowler in his grip and from the tell-tale pastiness of his skin, it was easy to see he was nervous. And uncomfortable. Between his cleanliness and his colorful, top-of-line clothing, he stood out like an extravagant oasis in the middle of a desert.

On the opposite of the room, the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Rufus Scrimgeour, examined the fake body in the corner from a crouch. Though tall and thin, this man was, by contrast, clearly strong, and he held himself with a confidence won only through battle and experience. His hair, beard, and sideburns were reddish-brown and clean-cut, and his eyes were sharp and almost black in the dark room. He was not a man to be trifled with, that was certain.

“First Black, and now this—this lunatic!” Minister Fudge continued, eyes nervously flickering to the cell door where dementors were barely kept out by a silvery barrier.

“Emrys must have bypassed the magic-suppressant wards without taking them down,” Scrimgeour replied gruffly, ignoring the Minister and standing up from his crouch.

Fudge huffed. “The public’s already panicking enough, Scrimgeour! They’re questioning my ability to lead this country!”

“Then don’t tell them,” the other man said frustratedly, scowling as he cast a different spell. The replica floated into an upright position, spinning lazily in space. “This man is ten times more dangerous than Black. We can’t risk him knowing we’re on to him.”

Fudge began to speak and paused, closing his mouth. “Oh, well,” he said, fumbling with his words. “As I said. The public would panic.”

Scrimgeour’s scowl deepened, and he glared at the Minister briefly before turning back to the replica and smoothing out his features. “His magic is too unnatural,” he commented, not bothering to deign the Minister’s own comment with a response. “I can’t read a proper read on the age of the spell.”

“Age?” Fudge said, attention suddenly caught. “What do you mean, age? He can’t have escaped more than a few days ago.”

Scrimgeour crossed his arms and turned towards Fudge, giving him a displeased look. “The dementors were tricked. We have no way of knowing how long ago he escaped.” Scrimgeour became slightly more thoughtful, more introspective. “We must assume he’s been gone since we last visited him.”

Fudge’s eyes were almost bulging out of his face. “Since we—that was over a decade ago!” he exclaimed with a false laugh, as if he could dismiss it by treating the idea as a joke.

“He may have used the Dark Lord’s fall to escape,” Scrimgeour mused to himself. “It would have been the easiest time to leave unnoticed. Too many people celebrating, and then no one cared about the imprisoned.”

“Preposterous,” Fudge sputtered. Scrimgeour’s eyes refocused on the indignant minister sharply, and Fudge deflated. “No one could be so powerful as to fool the dementors that long,” he added defensively.

Scrimgeour unfolded his arms and stepped forward so he loomed over the other man. “He _must_ be. This is the man performed a powerful memory charm wordlessly _and_ wandlessly _while in Auror custody_. He is not a man to be underestimated.”

“I read the reports!” Fudge said, outraged and defensive. He straightened to try and meet Scrimgeour’s height. “He was extremely susceptible to the dementors. They described him as—as _catatonic_ around them. How could he escape like _that_?”

“It could hardly have been that bad,” Scrimgeour said harshly. “Perhaps he faked the severity of their influence, perhaps the reports were exaggerated. It doesn’t particularly matter. He _did_ escape, and we _must_ be prepared to follow an extremely old trail to find him, not a new one.”

Scrimgeour turned back to the replica, which was still floating, leaving the Minister sputtering. Eventually, however, he calmed down, and the room became silent and still, though thick with tension.

Clearing his throat, Fudge patted the hat in his hands nervously and attempted to restart the conversation. “So,” he hedged. “What’s your plan then?”

“Read his files, examine this cell, and search for signs of abnormal magic,” Scrimgeour listed promptly. “We usually can’t keep track of someone’s magical signature on a large scale without the trace, but his magic is so unusual, we may be able to find it.”

“Ah, well, good then,” Fudge said awkwardly. “You will be leading the investigation, I assume?”

Scrimgeour sniffed and cast a preservation spell on the replica before shrinking and placing it neatly in a small bag on his belt. “I will oversee it. Auror Shacklebolt will lead.”

Fudge swayed back, eyes wide with alarm. “Shacklebolt! How do we know he won’t tell anyone? Or what about the other Aurors, the ones who were here? We can’t risk the public discovering this!”

“I don’t have the time to lead a case like this, and _Auror_ Shacklebolt is one of our best. He would have been given Black’s case if something more important hadn’t come up,” Scrimgeour said sharply.

“B-but, but—“

Scrimgeour cut off the Minister’s blubbering. “Aurors Shacklebolt, Marvey, and Jones have already sworn to secrecy.”

Fudge’s shoulders slumped. “Well, they better be discreet.”

Scrimgeour rolled his eyes and walked out the door without responding, the light following him. Cursing, Fudge stumbled out of the now-dark cell to follow, and as they walked back to the boat off the island, he hoped this Emrys fellow wasn’t doing anything too terrible out there. He shivered at the thought of what a Death Eater so dangerous could do.

\----

“You’re here too much.”

Merlin paused and looked up from the table he had been wiping down in the near-empty café. His coworker stood across from him, arms crossed and her smooth, black hair pulled up in an impeccable ponytail, as always.

Raising an eyebrow, Merlin continued to clean as he refuted the accusation. He’d known she was plain-spoken, but this was blunt, even for her. “That tends to happen when you have a job, Aya.”

“Well, most people don’t hang out at work when they don’t have to, and you’re here _all the time_. Do you _ever_ socialize?”

Merlin winced. Socializing and having friends had been…complicated since Camelot. In the beginning, he would move to new places and make good friends relatively quickly. He never revealed his magic or full history with any of them, but most knew him quite well. But then there would be times where he couldn’t stand to be around other people in any way. It would go back and forth: short periods of being alone followed by long periods of good, decade-long friendships before those friends died and the process was repeated. The times of friendship, of course, had been good—great even—, but with each cycle, he grew to dread them more and more.

After a while, he just couldn’t stand it anymore, and so for the last four centuries, he’d avoided deep friendships like they were the Black Death. He needed human company, that was clear, but he stuck to friendly acquaintanceships and friends of circumstance. He even tried his best to work in places where he knew he’d have to interact with people, like this café. And it was enough for him. It had to be.

Merlin looked down. “I socialize,” he finally responded. It was (mostly) true.

Aya scoffed subtly. “Working and reading don’t count, Matt,” she said, using his current alias. Merlin thought her assessment was rather unfair: reading was a great source of comfort for him, especially rereading. It was like having friends but without the worry that they’d die and leave him. “You need friends,” Aya continued rather ironically. “Real friends.”

“You’re a friend,” Merlin quickly pointed out. He was still wiping the table, but it was long since clean by now.

“I’m a _work_ friend. We don’t actually know each other all that well,” Aya said.

“Still a friend,” Merlin muttered.

“Listen.” Aya uncrossed her arms, pulled out a chair, and sat in it. Glancing at the only customer in the building, Merlin reluctantly followed her lead. “I worry about you, ok?” she continued. “I know finding friends can be hard, believe me, but you need a life outside of all this.” She motioned to the rest of the café.

She paused expectantly, but Merlin only shrugged. This conversation was making him feel rather uncomfortable. He hated when this happened.

Once she realized he wouldn’t respond verbally, she pushed onward, starting to list all the possible ways he could meet new people.

A sudden jolt shot through Merlin’s body, and his every muscle tensed. Aya’s voice faded away as goosebumps appeared on his arms as if he’d unexpectedly been doused with water.

One of his wards had been breached. And only one of them would have caused this strong of a reaction.

Merlin stood abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. “I need to go to the loo,” he managed to gasp before running clumsily to the back and locking the door to the water closet. Only seconds later, knocking could be heard on the door, but Merlin was busy clogging the sink and filling it with water. His hands shook.

Within seconds, there was enough water. Turning off the faucet, he waited for the water to still then cast first a silencing spell on the room and at last a scrying spell on the sink.

He watched everything, from the moment two Aurors entered his Azkaban cell to when the Minister and Scrimgeour—whom Merlin couldn’t quite place—left. Halfway through, he claimed sickness and was let off work early, Aya calling out for him to get some soup, but the apparition home barely bit into the wait between visits.

The cell once again dark and lifeless, Merlin disrupted the water in the scrying bowl on his dining table and picked up the cold coffee mug beside him, slumping back in his chair at the table.

Sighing, he rubbed his forehead wearily. He hadn’t known about Sirius Black’s escape. Didn’t keep up with the Wizarding World’s news too much, not since his own escape. Maybe he was uncomfortable seeing the Wizarding world in peace when he should rightfully be rotting in Azkaban. Or perhaps all the blood purity and anti-magical creature sentiment had finally become too longstanding for him to tolerate. Either way, he’d never resubscribed to the Daily Prophet.

He absently rubbed the back of his neck where he knew the Aurors had tattooed his prison numbers. He’d been unconscious at the time. His picture, on the other hand, had been taken after he was shoved into a cell in Azkaban.

Shaking his head, he stood and stretched. He had work to do, spells to cast, plans to make. And maybe tomorrow, he could begin to look into Sirius Black's escape. He had anonymously given dark wizards and witches to the Ministry before, after all. The country shouldn’t have to worry about a mass murderer just because he didn’t want to associate with the Ministry.

Besides, it would be interesting to meet a fellow escapee.

**Author's Note:**

> 6/14/18:
> 
> Newly updated! I like it a lot better now. Hopefully it's good for you guys too? As a side note, thanks for all the reviews! I appreciate you all reading this (especially when it used to be so crappy). 
> 
> I'll try to get the expanded version out soon! I'm going to write it all first, then publish it :)


End file.
